


Step Into the Sun

by kjack89



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Animals, Crossover, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Minor Character Death, The Lion King AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-25
Updated: 2013-09-29
Packaged: 2017-12-27 14:51:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,796
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/980183
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kjack89/pseuds/kjack89
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><strong>Lion King AU.</strong> Grantaire is the son of the king of the pridelands with Enjolras as his best friend growing up. When Grantaire's evil uncle kills his father, Grantaire must flee the pridelands, never to return. At least, not until a familiar figure shows up years later.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I Just Can't Wait to be King

**Author's Note:**

> So this happened.
> 
> Blame besanii as it is about 90% her fault for encouraging this madness.
> 
> Obviously based on the Lion King, and all your favorite characters are going to be animals in this. The plot is slightly different - the father-son dynamic replaced mostly with the love story between Enjolras and Grantaire (because homoromantic lions are awesome), and instead of a stampede, there's vague references to the July Revolution (complete bastardized references, I should add).
> 
> Title is from a line from the song "The Circle of Life".
> 
> Usual disclaimer - I own none of the source material and all of the typos.

“One day, I’m going to be king, and I’m going to rule all of this land!” Grantaire pronounced proudly, the tip of his tail flicking back and forth as he grinned at Enjolras, who looked distinctly unimpressed.

Combeferre cleared his throat and flapped his wings a few times. “Actually, young prince, the power of a king derives from the consent of the people. Meaning that this land is theirs, and you share in it with them so long as they consent.”

Enjolras turned a smug smile on Grantaire. “See? I told you so.”

Grantaire growled at the other lion cub, whose golden fur seemed to glow in the warm savannah sun. Grantaire’s own pelt was more of a dusty brown, though both cubs had bright blue eyes. “I still rank above you,” he told Enjolras, sticking his tongue out at him. “Divine right and all that. And not even your talk of equality and liberty and whatever else can change that.”

“Oh really?” Enjolras asked sweetly, and before Grantaire could respond, Enjolras had pounced on him and the two cubs tumbled over and over together until Enjolras wound up on top, his paws pinning Grantaire to the ground. “Tell me again how you have the divine right to rule over me?”

Growling deep in his throat, Grantaire pushed Enjolras off, glaring at the smug look that seemed permanently in place on Enjolras’s face. “Enjolras has a point,” Combeferre pointed out. “As I was saying about the consent of the ruled—”

“Ferre, do me a favor and shut up,” Grantaire hissed, though he stopped, looking closely at Combeferre. “Actually, stay right there and don’t move.”

Combeferre looked at him suspiciously, clacking his beak before asking, “What are you planning on doing?”

Grantaire extended his claws and scratched at the dirt with them, an innocent grin on his face. “I was just thinking of practicing my pouncing,” he said off-handedly, though his grin had turned wicked.

“Your pouncing?” Combeferre repeated skeptically, ruffling his blue feathers as he turned to glare at Grantaire out of one beady eye. “Are you planning on pouncing on me? Because if so, I think you should reconsider that plan.”

Grinning, Grantaire flexed his claws, shaking his fur as he crouched down against the ground, eyeing the angle between him and Combeferre. “Thankfully, you don’t get a choice in the matter, since I’m pretty sure it’s in your job description to help me train to be a good king, and I’m pretty sure being a good king means I’ve got to be able to pounce.”

Combeferre squawked in protest, spreading his wings wide. “I’m fairly certain that’s not how that’s supposed to work.”

“Grantaire’s got a point,” Enjolras said, reluctantly, his tail swishing almost agitatedly. “If you consented to the job and all of its requirements, than he is within his rights as an employer to make you carry out the terms of your contract.”

Despite the situation, Combeferre looked almost excited as he turned to Enjolras. “Ah, but it’s not that easy. You’re assuming that I was in a position to consent to the terms of the agreement initially, but economic factors may have forced me to take the job, thus acting as a coercive power and negating the consent.”

He was so caught up in the discussion that he hadn’t noticed Grantaire stalking away, selecting a key spot and crouching, eyes bright and fangs bared. Just as Combeferre finished his argument, looking immensely proud of himself, Grantaire pounced, bowling Combeferre over while even Enjolras couldn’t help but laugh. “Very funny,” Combeferre sniffed, flapping his wings to help right himself. “But if you carry on, I suspect you will make a very poor king indeed.”

“Well, luckily, I’ve got Enjolras to help keep me in line, right?” Grantaire asked, nudging Enjolras companionably.

The golden cub shook his head exasperatedly, though he nudged Grantaire back. “Yep, I’ll make sure that he doesn’t do anything too stupid. Well, at least as much as I can, because there’s not much I can do for natural stupidity.”

Grantaire growled. “Take that back,” he snapped, extending his claws again, though both cubs knew he was  _mostly_  joking.

Enjolras just sat on his haunches, giving Grantaire his most imperious look. “You know, I don’t think I will,” he said conversationally, unsheathing his own claws as a wicked grin spread across his muzzle. “In fact, I’m pretty sure you’re going to have to come over here and  _make_  me.”

Needing little more provocation, Grantaire launched himself at Enjolras and they tumbled over again, giggling and playfully nipping at each other as they rolled around. Once again, Enjolras ended up on top, his paws pressing into Grantaire’s shoulders. He touched his nose to Grantaire’s for a brief moment before letting him up, looking even more smug than normal. “So much for making me.”

Grantaire ground his teeth together and sprang to his feet, ready to have another go at it when he looked around, realizing where they were for the first time. “Enjolras,” he hissed, eyes narrowed, ears flat against his head, the fur on his shoulders beginning to stand on edge. “We’ve gone out of the pridelands.”

Enjolras glanced around as well, looking far less concerned than Grantaire. “So what?” he asked, taking a few steps forward, his ears pricked. “Don’t tell me you’ve never left the pridelands before.”

“Not all of us had as rebellious an upbringing as you,” Grantaire snapped, still nervous, eyes flickering from side to side.

At the mention of his upbringing, Enjolras paused in his steps for a few moments, his eyes hardening. Enjolras had been born to the equivalent of lion nobility, but had run away from his parents when he was no more than a kit, disgusted by the way his parents and others of their ilk acted. He wound up in Grantaire’s pride, intrigued by Grantaire’s father’s efforts to allow the common lions far more equality, and though he thought that further equality was necessary, that abolishing the monarchy entirely was necessary, he also found hope in the form of the young prince, who, despite his best attempts at nihilism, at least gave some thought to the continued expansion of liberty.

Even so, Enjolras’s upbringing was a sore subject for him, which explained the glare he leveled at Grantaire. “Maybe my upbringing was a bit rebellious,” he agreed coolly, “but that just means that I’m braver than you are.”

“Are not!” Grantaire said hotly, glad for the change of subject and glad to be back on the firmer ground of arguing, which was familiar territory for them. Perhaps too familiar a territory for them, but he put that thought from his mind as he leapt forward to pad side-by-side with Enjolras away from the pridelands, their shoulders occasionally brushing together. After a long moment, he murmured, “I really shouldn’t be here. My father will kill me.” He paused before adding almost under his breath, “Of course, ol’ Stanislas would have to remember I exist before that could happen.”

Enjolras shot him a sideways glance but didn’t say anything, knowing better than to broach the subject of Grantaire’s father. Grantaire had always been comfortable being prince - how could he not, having been raised knowing that he was special and chosen for this? - but has always been uncomfortable being his father’s son. He was nothing like the older lion, who always seemed to find fault in what Grantaire did (Enjolras had speculated with Combeferre that this was what had caused Grantaire’s nihilism, thinking that if he didn’t care, he couldn’t be disappointed by his father, but neither had ever suggested as such to Grantaire). And of course, they both knew that Grantaire’s father would not approve of how close their friendship was, which all the more reason to not discuss it.

Instead, Enjolras nudged him gently. “Hey, better ol’ Stanislas than your uncle Philippe. He creeps me out.”

Grantaire shuddered overdramatically, but smiled just slightly in appreciation of the subject change. “True. Very creepy. But Dad seems to trust him, so I guess he knows something I don’t.”

Suddenly, a shadow fell over them as Combeferre wheeled in the sky, landing in front of them. “What are you two doing?” he hissed, clacking his beak furiously. “We’re out of the pridelands! Grantaire - what were you thinking? I expected better from you.”

This was hardly the first time Combeferre had expressed disappointment in Grantaire (often coupled with extreme exasperation at his antics), but on the heels of the brief mention of Grantaire’s father, the words smarted more than usual, causing Grantaire’s expression to darken. “You’re not the boss of me,” he snarled, not caring how petulant he sounded, and he sprinted ahead, ignoring Combeferre’s calls behind him.

“Nice,” Enjolras sighed, rolling his eyes as he quickened his pace.

Combeferre ruffled his feathers. “Normally I’m the one telling you to lay off Grantaire. This is a sudden and not necessarily welcome change.”

Enjolras shook his head, ignoring Combeferre’s words as he ran after Grantaire. When he finally caught up to him, he skidded to a stop, his heart pounding in his chest at the reason Grantaire had also stopped: four hyenas standing in front of Grantaire and grinning evilly at him. “Well, well, well, what do we have here, Claquesous?” asked the first, his black hair flopping into his dark eyes.

The hyena on his right cackled. “I don’t know, what do you think, Babet?”

Now the hyena on the first hyena’s left gave a low chuckle. “Gueulemer?”

The fourth hyena didn’t speak, though he growled a laugh as well. “What do you think we should do with them, Montparnasse?” Babet asked, licking his lips.

Grantaire was shaking slightly, his claws digging into the ground, and his fur was puffed up with either fear or bravado (or possibly both). Enjolras extended his claws as well, pressing against Grantaire’s side. “You won’t do anything to us,” he said, sounding far more sure than he felt at the moment. “We are free citizens able to do as we wish.”

“Ooh an idealist,” Montparnasse sneered. “Too bad your pretty ideals won’t save you here.” He circled around them, leaning in to smell Enjolras, laughing when Enjolras flinched. “You don’t smell like a pride lion, meaning you’re far from home. Do you think anyone will miss you when you don’t come back?”

“Leave him alone!” Grantaire snapped, unable to stay silent when Enjolras was being threatened.

Claquesous laughed and leaned in to smell Grantaire. “Oh, this one’s a pride kitty, ‘Parnasse. Better be careful, little kitty. You will have lions who will miss you if you don’t return.”

Grantaire lifted his chin, his eyes flashing, and he took the only chance he could. “More than just lions. My father is Stanislas, king of the pridelands, and he would stop at nothing to ensure my safe return, and if you were to touch a hair on me or my friend, he will kill you all.”

It was a bald-faced lie but it still seemed to do the trick. Montparnasse and Claquesous exchanged a glance, and Babet murmured, “If he brings the heat on us…”

Montparnasse sighed, nosing Enjolras’s scent one more time before stepping away. “Very well, kitties,” he drawled, eyes lingering uncomfortably on Enjolras before slipping to Grantaire. “You’ll live to fight another day. But step one paw into our land when your daddy’s not around…”

He trailed off, leaving the threat unspoken, and Enjolras and Grantaire turned and left as quickly as they could without running. When they were far enough away, Grantaire muttered under his breath, “Run. Now.”

They both sprinted as fast as they could, Combeferre tracking their movements from high above (he had stayed away during the confrontation, knowing his presence would do more harm than good). When they were back in the pridelands, Grantaire collapsed in a heap, his chest heaving. “I was so sure we were about to be hyena-food,” he gasped.

Enjolras’s legs buckled and he fell down next to him, resting his head against Grantaire’s shoulder. “You were brilliant back there,” he murmured. “You saved both of us.”

Grantaire flicked his ears, embarrassed. “I didn’t do anything you wouldn’t do in my place,” he muttered, though he licked Enjolras’s ear before struggling to his feet. “Come on, we should get back before my father really does find out.”

* * *

 

That night, Grantaire sat looking up at the stars and Enjolras padded over to him, sitting down beside him. “What’re you thinking?” Enjolras asked quietly.

Grantaire shrugged. “Wondering if I wouldn’t have been better off captured by hyenas than trying to be king one day.”

Enjolras frowned slightly, unsure of what to say to try and comfort him. “You don’t  _have_  to be king, you know. You can…you could abdicate. Leave the power up to the people. If you wanted.”

“That’s what you want, right?” Grantaire asked, his voice small.

Shrugging, Enjolras pressed against Grantaire comfortingly. “Honestly? I want you to be happy. And I somehow doubt that being the king would make you happy. But it’s your choice.” He paused for a moment, then licked Grantaire’s shoulder before lying down on the ground. “You should get some sleep. We’ve had a bit of an exciting day, after all.”

Grantaire curled up next to Enjolras, nosing the slightly shaggier fur on the back of his neck where his mane was starting to grow in. “Enj?” he asked softly. “We’ll always be friends, right? Even though you think the monarchy is wrong and should be abolished?”

Enjolras nuzzled him back, already half-asleep. “You’re my best friend in the entire world,” Enjolras told him. “And I’m sure when the time comes you’ll make the right decision. I believe in you.”

“Good,” Grantaire murmured before yawning widely. “Goodnight, Enjolras.”

“Goodnight Grantaire.”

The two cubs fell asleep together as if they had not a single care in the world.


	2. To Die For

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for minor character death in this one.

Enjolras and Grantaire lay napping in the warm sun while Combeferre drowsed in a nearby tree. A sudden shadow fell over both cubs, causing them to wake up, blinking blearily up at the looming figure of Grantaire’s uncle, Philippe. Grantaire sat up almost instantly, while Enjolras tensed beside him. “Uncle Philippe,” Grantaire said, almost nervously. “Did you need something?”

His uncle regarded him with cold eyes (“snake’s eyes,” Enjolras had called them, though of course, Enjolras greatly disliked Philippe, especially his closeness with the so-called lion nobility - “the bourgeois” Enjolras called them with pure contempt in his voice). After a long moment, he told Grantaire, “Yes. Your father wishes to see you. You’re to come with me.”

Enjolras sat up now, his claws extended. “Don’t do it,” he muttered to Grantaire, the fur on his back and shoulders starting to rise. “Something’s not right. Don’t go with him.”

Grantaire smiled what he hoped was his most disarming smile at his uncle and said pleasantly, “Just a moment, uncle. I need to consult with Enjolras for a brief moment.”

"I don’t know what you think you need to discuss with one of his kind," Philippe growled.

Grantaire’s smile turned cold. “Enjolras is my most trusted advisor and my closest friend. And you  _will_  allow me to talk to him.”

With that said, he stood, padding a few paces away with Enjolras at his side. Enjolras kept looking back at Philippe, his entire body tense. “I don’t like it, Grantaire,” he said abruptly as soon as they were out of earshot. “Something just feels  _off_.”

Combeferre winged over, also looking concerned. “Sire, I must agree with Enjolras,” he said in an undertone, flapping his wings with discomfort, his use of a title instead of Grantaire’s name indicating the gravity of the situation. “Why would your father have sent your uncle if he needed you? Why would he not have come and fetched you himself?”

Grantaire sighed, his tail twitching agitatedly as he looked from Enjolras to Combeferre. “I don’t disagree,” he said in a low voice after a long moment. “But at the same time, what am I supposed to do? I can’t disobey a direct order from my father, no matter what messenger brings it.”

Though Enjolras snorted with derision at that, he did not offer any other solution, instead glaring at Philippe, his muscles shifting under his golden fur. Then he blinked and turned back to them. “At least take me with you,” he growled in an undertone. “I’ll…I’ll protect you. Or something.”

"King Stanislas would never allow it," Combeferre said before Grantaire could answer (could agree the way that he wanted to). "You are still too much of a stranger - and a radical stranger at that - to be allowed into a meeting between the king and Grantaire. I, on the other wing…"

Grantaire nodded slowly, though he seemed unable to look away from Enjolras. “You wouldn’t even really be noticed if you came with me.” His voice sounded slightly hollow and he blinked an apology at Enjolras, who inclined his head slightly in understanding. Without looking at Combeferre, Grantaire commanded in a soft voice, “Ferre, give us a moment.”

As soon as Ferre had flapped back to his perch, Grantaire leaned in an nuzzled Enjolras. “It will be alright,” he promised in a soft voice. “I’ll be fine.”

Enjolras nuzzled him back, licking his cheek and murmuring, “I know. I just wish that I could go with you. I don’t trust your uncle.”

"But you trust me, right?" Grantaire asked softly, nosing Enjolras’s fur.

A low rumble seemed to emit from Enjolras’s chest as he replied, “Of course. I believe in you.”

Grantaire practically purred in response, nuzzling Enjolras for a long moment before he said quietly, “Then let me do this. I will take care of whatever my father wants and be back before you know it.”

There was a long pause before Enjolras huffed a sigh and dropped his head to rest his muzzle on Grantaire’s shoulder. “Fine,” he muttered, though his tone of voice indicated he was anything but. “Though you better send Combeferre if you need anything.”

"Of course, silly," Grantaire told him, licking the fur on his shoulder. "Now go play or something. I’ll be fine."

"Promise?" Enjolras asked softly.

Grantaire rolled his eyes. “Promise.”

As Grantaire padded away, following his uncle, neither realized that this was a promise that Grantaire was going to be unable to keep.

* * *

 

Just as they predicted, Combeferre was able to swoop into the cave above Philippe and Grantaire without anyone paying him much mind. Grantaire seemed to shrink as he padded in, surprised to see a number of serious-looking lions and lionesses, most of whom he did not recognize.

He saw his father sitting in the back of the cave, flanked by two lions and looking unusually grave. “Father,” Grantaire said when he reached him, bowing his head. “What did you need me for?”

"Sit beside me, Grantaire," Stanislas commanded and Grantaire, more confused than ever, took his place at his father’s side, looking out at the assembled lions.

Philippe stood at the front of them, his eyes gleaming. “As I was saying earlier, the people have spoken and they no longer want you as king.”

Something in Grantaire’s gut and he looked up at Stanislas. “What’s he talking about?” Grantaire asked in a small voice. “What people? The lions love you, Father. Don’t they?”

Sneering, Philippe strode forward and smacked Grantaire with his paw (though his claws were thankfully sheathed). “Be silent,” he commanded. “We’ve not yet decided what to do with you, and you don’t want to make this harder on yourself.”

Grantaire cast frantic eyes around the cave, at the lions that showed no sign of surprise at Philippe’s words. Philippe reached out with his paw to pull Grantaire closer to him, growling a laugh as Grantaire whimpered slightly. “As you can see, Stanislas, you have only one choice,” Philippe said triumphantly, running a single claw lightly down Grantaire’s spine. “Abdicate, or we will kill your son.”

Letting out a pitiful whimper, Grantaire scrambled to try and get away, though he was stopped by one of the other lions. Stanislas closed his eyes for a brief moment. “You do leave me no choice,” he said. “Very well. I abdicate my throne in favor of my son.”

Philippe nodded as if he had been expecting that. He looked at the lion next to him. “Who did he abdicate in favor of?” he asked mildly.

The lion blinked once, the shook his mane. “I heard him abdicate in favor of his brother.”

"As did I," another lion said. Soon all the lions were calling their agreement as Grantaire cowered even further, completely lost as to what was going on.

Philippe turned back to Stanislas, wide smile on his face. “The people have chosen.” He paused for just a moment, his eyes not leaving his brother’s. Then he said calmly, “Kill him.”

Grantaire cried out, “No!” as Combeferre let out a squawk of disbelief as the other lions leapt into action, but neither of them could do anything as Stanislas fell heavily, the lions’ work done.

Now Philippe turned to Grantaire, eyes gleaming coldly, and Grantaire pressed against the cave wall, eyes searching desperately for a way out. The lion closest to Philippe stirred uncomfortably. “I did not agree to murdering a cub,” he growled.

Philippe swiveled his ear impatiently. “Blood must be spilled to see our vision come to light.” More discontented murmurs sounded throughout the cave and Philippe sighed. “Fine,” he growled, stalking to Grantaire. “You are to leave the pridelands and never return, do you understand? Everyone will be told that you are dead, and if you return, you really will be.”

Grantaire cast a frightened look at his father and he nodded quickly. “I understand.” After a long moment, he added, “Your Majesty.”

Grinning savagely, Philippe snapped his jaws at him. “Run Grantaire!” he said triumphantly. “Run away and never return!”

Leaping away, Grantaire did exactly that, sprinting toward the cave entrance, barely noticing Combeferre flying out after him. He burst out of the cave with calls of “Long live the king! Long live King Philippe!” echoing in his ears.

Grantaire bit back a sob as he ran, his heart beating an unsteady rhythm in his chest. His father was  _dead_ , he was exiled, and nothing was ever going to be the same. It was all he could do to keep thoughts of what he was leaving behind (of  _who_  he was leaving behind) out of his mind as he ran out of the pridelands. So caught up was he in his thoughts that he ran straight into Montparnasse, who snapped at him, laughing when Grantaire jumped out of the reach of his fangs just in time.

"I told you what would happen the last time you stepped on to our land," Montparnasse growled, his eyes dark and dangerous. "Too bad your pretty little friend isn’t with you this time. He at least would have put up a fight and made this fun."

Fury boiled in Grantaire’s veins, and before Montparnasse could so much as scent him, Grantaire had unsheathed his claws and raked them across Montparnasse face, growling savagely as Montparnasse squealed in pain. “I will kill you if I have to,” Grantaire snarled as Montparnasse beat a hasty retreat. “Let me pass.”

The hyenas exchanged glances, Montparnasse still whimpering as blood trickled from the slashes on his face. Claquesous licked his lips and growled, “Fine, kitty. We’ll let you pass. But you better run and not stop until you’re out of our land. Because if we catch you…”

He did not even finish the threat before Grantaire was gone, running just as fast as he had before, the hyenas hot on his tail. Thankfully, he had pure adrenaline on his side, which was probably all that got him out of their territory alive. When he crossed into the desert, he heard the hyenas all halt, though Montparnasse yelled after him, “If you ever come back, kitty, we’ll kill you!”

"Not that it matters," Babet growled as they turned away. "He’s as good as dead out there anywhere."

Grantaire did not pause in his run despite the lack of pursuit, and Combeferre dropped down from the height he had been flying at, the strain of flying as far and as fast as he had plain. “Grantaire, you can’t do this,” Combeferre pleaded, flapping his wings as fast as he could to keep up with the young cub. “You can’t just leave!”

Grantaire shook his head, ignoring the hot tears that ran from his eyes. “What choice do I have?” he asked bitterly.

Combeferre clacked his beak impatiently. “You can choose to stay, to fight against your uncle, to do  _something_. What will Enjolras think?”

Stopping so quickly that Combeferre almost flew right past, Grantaire looked around wildly. “You have to go back,” he told Combeferre, almost desperately. “You have to go back. You worked with my father; you can be advisor to Philippe as well.”

"Grantaire—" Combeferre started, but Grantaite shook his head firmly, still lookin unspeakably desperate.

"You  _have_  to go back. You can protect him. You can make sure they don’t hurt him.” He broke off, pained expression crossing his face. “Please, Combeferre,” he begged. “Please make sure that he’s safe.”

Combeferre didn’t need to ask who Grantaire was referring to; the answer was written starkly all over Grantaire’s features, and for a brief moment Combeferre wondered what it must feel like knowing that Grantaire had to leave and Enjolras had to stay. “He’ll want to come after you,” Combeferre said quietly. “And I won’t be able to stop him.”

Grantaire met his eyes squarely. “He’ll believe that I’m dead, just like everyone else. Because you won’t tell him otherwise.”

"I can’t lie to him!" Combeferre protested. "Not about this, anyway. He’ll never forgive me when he finds out."

Grantaire was already starting to walk away, his small shoulders set. “Then make sure that he doesn’t find out.”

Combeferre let out a shriek, flapping into the air as Grantaire started to run. “Grantaire!” he called. “Grantaire!” When the cub did not turn, did not look back, Combeferre called, “Good luck, Grantaire!”

He didn’t tell Grantaire to turn back, didn’t ask him to stay or to at least explain things to Enjolras. He knew better than that. Instead, Combeferre watched until he could no longer see Grantaire, then he wheeled and began the long flight back to the pridelands.


	3. In the Jungle, the Mighty Jungle

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here we finally meet Jehan and Courfeyrac.
> 
> Had I had more time while writing this, I would've incorporated some of the other Amis, but alas, they shall remain nameless in this, and for that I apologize (but on the other hand, you can cast them however you want. I like to picture Bahorel as a gender-swapped lioness in the final battle, myself).

The sun beating down on Grantaire’s fur was oppressive, the dirt beneath his paws scorched dry as he padded wearily forward. His head felt light and his heart pounding in his chest seemed to be growing weaker with every step he took.

He hadn’t looked back once.

Even though the pridelands were long since out of sight, past the horizon and an immeasurable distance away, Grantaire could not bear to look over his shoulder, knowing that everything in him, every instinct and desire he possessed would want him to turn around, to go back, to run back to Enjolras and to just nuzzle him and drink in his scent the way that he would have done if he had known he would never see him again.

Losing Enjolras hurt far worse than losing his father, who had always been a distant figure in his life, and though Grantaire would miss the pridelands and the other pride lions as well, it paled in comparison to the way that Grantaire missed Enjolras already, like a claw twisting in his heart. He was just a cub, and for a long moment he let himself feel pitiful, thinking that life was not fair, that he should not be going through this, that  _no one_  should have to go through this.

But then he stumbled against a rock half-buried in the sand and the pitying turned into anger, which drove him to run faster (as fast he was able with thirst, hunger, and fatigue taking their toll). In the end, he stumbled against another rock, and this time, he did not make it back up, his legs shaking too hard to continue.

Instead, he lay back against the sand, his tongue hanging out of his mouth as he panted desperately for water, and his eyes rolled up to the sun. For just a moment, he imagined that the golden light was Enjolras’s fur, and as he closed his eyes, he imagined burying his face against Enjolras. He imagined being home.

* * *

 

Courfeyrac stood very still, peering out at the horizon, his meerkat eyes narrowed. “Courf!” a voice called from far too close to his left ear and he jumped about a foot in the air, whirling around.

Glaring at the warthog that stood in front of him, Courfeyrac pressed a paw against his chest, feeling his heart beat wildly. “For the last time, Jehan, what have I told you about sneaking up on me?”

Though Jehan looked slightly ashamed, mostly he looked amused, and as he scuffed one of his hooves against the ground. “Shouldn’t you have heard me coming?” he asked wryly, his black eyes twinkling.

Courfeyrac’s glare deepened and he scrambled up Jehan’s snout to perch on his head between his ears. “Oh, shut up,” he snapped irritably, pulling hard on one of Jehan’s ears, though Jehan did nothing more than chuckle lightly as he trotted in the direction of the desert. “Are you just assuming that the desert’s safe?”

“I figure you would have mentioned something if it wasn’t.” Jehan’s response was genial and easy, the way that he often was (when he wasn’t plagued by occasional bouts of melancholy and went off by himself, leaving Courfeyrac alone for hours or days at a stretch). Jehan and Courfeyrac were best friends and perhaps something like soulmates, tossed together by circumstance and making the most of their relatively isolated existence in their little corner of jungle. “Besides,” Jehan added, flicking his ear out of Courfeyrac’s grasp, “I figured we’d go bowling for buzzards. Since it’s your favorite and it’s not like we have other plans.”

In spite of himself, Courfeyrac relaxed against Jehan, patting him gently. “Thanks, Jehan. You always know how to cheer me up.”

Jehan snorted happily. “I try. Most of the time.”

Bowling for buzzards was their favorite pastime, running full-force at flocks of buzzards to get them to scatter from whatever carcass they had been feeding on. It was a lot of fun and helped them wile away a few hours in between meals (which was how they spent most of their time, eating and napping; Jehan had a penchant for making up poetry and would often declaim at full volume while Courfeyrac mostly tuned him out and lounged around).

Theirs was a simple existence.

It was about to get infinitely more complicated.

That day, they trotted towards a large group of buzzards, more than normal, and Jehan pricked his ears up excitedly. “You ready?” he asked Courfeyrac.

Courfeyrac just grinned and gripped the base of Jehan’s ears, holding on tightly. “Ready, mon frère!”

Letting out a wild yell, Jehan rushed at top speed toward the buzzards, who scattered instantly. Well, the ones directly in Jehan’s path did; the others, too stupid to realize what had happened, instantly closed in on the carcass, and Jehan wheeled around for another run. It only took two more tries to clear all the buzzards out of the area, and Courfeyrac let out a triumphant yell before flipping off of Jehan’s back and heading over to examine the carcass. “It’s a lion,” Jehan said, surprised. Lions rarely wandered this far from the pridelands.

“A lion?” Courfeyrac asked, sounding more intrigued than anything. “You know, I’ve never seen one this close.” He lifted one of the lion cub’s paws, holding it up speculatively. “This guy would’ve grown to be a big fellow.”

Jehan sniffed him, suddenly freezing in place. “He still could,” he muttered, mostly under his breath, before raising his voice to say cautiously, “Um, Courf, I hate to break it to you, but I think he’s still alive.”

Courfeyrac dropped the lion’s paw like he had been scalded. “Alive?” he yelped, scrambling back towards Jehan to hide behind his legs. “What are you waiting for? Let’s get out of here! I don’t want to be here when he wakes up!”

Tossing Courfeyrac a scathing look, Jehan walked closer to where the lion still lay. “He’s barely breathing, Courf,” he said softly as he nudged the small body with his snout. “If we don’t help him, he’s not going to wake up.”

“Help him?” Courfeyrac repeated incredulously. “Why would we help him? Do you know what lions do to guys like us?”

Jehan shook his head, exasperated. “He’s practically a baby. He’s not going to wake up and eat us. Besides, maybe it’s not a terrible idea to have a lion around. He could always protect us if we needed him to, which might come in handy at some point.”

Courfeyrac just stared at him, spluttering wordlessly in indignation as Jehan bent to scoop the body onto his horns, hefting the little lion across his snout. “Coming?” Jehan asked gruffly, and even though Courfeyrac was still gaping at him, he climbed on Jehan’s back, sitting as far away from the prone body as he could.

When they got to the edge of the jungle and into the relative shade, Courfeyrac reluctantly helped Jehan splash water on the small lion’s face, knowing that Jehan would be unbearable (and most likely inconsolable) if the lion cub were to die. After a long moment, the lion coughed, blinking his eyes slowly as he came to. “Enj-ras?” he croaked.

“Shh,” Jehan said gently. “You’re fine. You’re safe. Can you get up and drink a little bit of water?”

The lion stood on shaky legs and just made it to the edge of the pool before he collapsed again, though he managed to drink weakly from the water. After a long moment, he said stiffly, “Thank you.”

Jehan scooted closer to him, as Courfeyrac hung back, still not trusting the lion, no matter how weak he appeared. “No need to thank us,” Jehan told him, smiling warmly at the lion, who looked almost depressed, trying to curl in on himself as if he could somehow disappear.

“You could always just promise not to eat us,” Courfeyrac muttered, perhaps louder than he had intended, since the lion’s blue eyes flickered over to him.

For a brief moment, the lion seemed to perk up, looking like he might almost laugh as that, but just as soon as the smile ghosted across his face it disappeared, falling again into misery. “I promise that I won’t eat you,” he said solemnly, sitting up slowly and looking almost longingly out at the desert. “I should get going, anyway.”

Jehan exchanged a look with Courfeyrac, and, perhaps against his better judgment, Courfeyrac moved closer to the lion, sitting down near him. “What do you mean, get going? You almost died out there, and you’re probably not in any condition to go anywhere. Where are you even from, anyway? Where’s your mom and dad?”

“It doesn’t matter,” the lion said instantly, sharper than he might have meant, since he winced at his own tone. “I can never go back there,” he said in a softer voice, his ears swiveling almost agitatedly.

Courfeyrac smiled reassuringly. “So you’re an outcast! So are we! It’s nothing to be afraid of, kid. What’s happened has happened, you know?”

Jehan nodded enthusiastically. “Exactly! It’s like I’m always saying - Hakuna matata!”

Shooting him a dirty look, Courfeyrac muttered from the corner of his mouth, “How many times do I have to tell you, that’s not a real expression. Those aren’t even real words.” Jehan just huffed and rolled his eyes as Courfeyrac turned back to the lion. “You can stay with us, if you like. Since you’ve promised you won’t eat us.”

The lion looked at him carefully. “Do other lions often come this way?”

“Kid, you’re the first lion I’ve ever seen,” Courfeyrac said honestly, then added, nudging Jehan in the ribs, “and I’m not  _lion_  about that!”

“Really Courf?” Jehan snorted, shaking his head as he turned to the lion. “No, lions don’t often come here. And it’s a pretty nice place save for the fact that you have to put up with Courfeyrac. So what do you say?”

Hesitating for only a brief moment, the lion nodded. “Ok. I’ll stay. Thank you.”

“Excellent!” Courfeyrac said excitedly, heading towards the forest. He paused and turned back to the lion. “Oh, by the way, what should we call you?”

After another long moment, the lion said softly, “You can call me Taire.”

Jehan beamed at him. “Excellent! Come on, Taire, we’ll go get you settled into your new home!”

They both headed off into the jungle, chatting excitedly with what they wanted to do with Taire first, what they wanted to show him, where they should take him. Grantaire watched them go and turned to cast one last longing look at the desert horizon before padding after Jehan and Courfeyrac to his new life.

* * *

 

Growing up in the jungle with Courfeyrac and Jehan was actually not a bad way to do things. Grantaire had few cares or worries, subsisting half on grubs and insects the way that Courfeyrac seemed content to and also hunting small animals for himself.

He grew strong and large, his claws and his teeth sharp, his eyes keen, but there was something in Grantaire that did not heal as he grew - something that never could heal, even with time, and he tended to have sullen fits, periods of melancholy and depression even deeper than Jehan’s, where he couldn’t be roused for days at a time and seemed to spend much of his day sleeping and lying around, not talking, not eating, not wanting anything to do with anyone.

Courfeyrac and Jehan learned to mostly leave him alone at times like these, though Jehan could occasionally get away with snuggling against him, soothing him as much as possible with just his presence.

On one of these days, Grantaire passed sullenly through the savannah just on the other side of their patch of jungle, the sun shining brightly down on him, on his slumped shoulders and drooping ears, his far dark against the grass.

Grantaire looked up at the sun, closing his eyes at its intense light, picturing Enjolras as he always did, wondering what he looked like now that he was grown, if he was still as intensely beautiful as he had been (though part of him wondered if Enjolras was anything that he remembered, since it had been so long since he had seen him that he had no idea if Enjolras ever looked the way he remembered, the way he seemed imprinted on Grantaire’s heart). “I miss you,” he whispered, his voice cracking slightly. “I miss you just as much today as I always have.”

He looked down at his paws, his shoulders slumped, defeated. “I promised you that we would always be best friends, and I’m sorry. I’m sorry that I’m not there, I’m sorry that I’ll never see you again, I’m sorry that I lied.” He snorted lightly. “God, what you must think of me. What you  _would_  think of me if you could see me now.” Opening his eyes again, squinting in the bright light, he whispered once more, “I miss you. I always will.”

As he padded back into the forest, it almost seemed the breeze whispering through the savannah was echoing the words  _I miss you, too_.

* * *

 

Jehan had his snout to the ground, hot on the trail of particularly delicious roots that he was pretty sure he had seen out this direction. He had meandered away from Courfeyrac, which was no real loss, since Courfeyrac had been singing to himself and practically driving Jehan up a tree.

Still, he paused in his step, eyes still focused on the ground as he frowned. He was pretty sure he should have found those roots by now.

A sudden twig snap caused his head to snap up, looking around almost wildly for the source of the noise. His instincts were screaming  _run, danger!_ but living with a lion had caused Jehan to learn to ignore some of his instincts (else he would have bolted anytime Taire came on him unexpectedly).

Speaking of Taire, he saw what might have been a flash of blue eyes further out in the savannah, and without thinking, Jehan called, “Taire, is that you?”

A growl was the only response, a growl that was definitely  _not_  Grantaire, and suddenly, Jehan could see what he had completely missed, a golden-furred lion with bared fangs and a hungry look in his eyes. Letting out a wordlessly cry, Jehan turned on hoof and ran, sprinting as if his life depended on it (which, really, it did).

He could hear the lion behind him, running just as fast as he was, with an edge of desperation to his run, and Jehan sped up, calling recklessly, “Help! Taire! Courf! Someone - help!”

So focused was he on running that he almost missed the shadow from Taire as he suddenly leapt over Jehan with a snarl that tore from his throat, rushing at the strange lion. Courfeyrac appeared out of nowhere, eyes wide as saucers as he and Jehan watched Taire bat at the lion with his claws, snarling and growling ferociously. “Get ‘im!” Courfeyrac called as the gold lion roared, snapping at Taire as Taire lunged at his throat.

They ended up tangling together, bowling each other over and over until the gold lion wound up on top, his muzzle mere inches from Taire’s, panting and growling.

Grantaire lay, chest heaving, staring up into blue eyes that he had convinced himself he would never see again, and with a voice that almost trembled, he asked breathlessly, “Enjolras?”


	4. Can You Feel the Love Tonight

Enjolras stared down at Grantaire, eyes wide and confused as a smile spread across Grantaire’s face. “Enjolras!” Grantaire repeated, sounding happier than he had in months. “It’s me!”

Releasing Grantaire and backing up quickly, Enjolras still looked lost, confusion etched across his face. “Who are you?” he asked, sounding incredibly wary, his claws still extended and his fangs still half-bared.

“It’s me,” Grantaire repeated, still feeling incredibly light, the grin across his muzzle turning almost goofy with excitement. “It’s Grantaire.”

Now Enjolras’s eyes widened and for a moment he looked almost frightened. “Grantaire?” he echoed, something strange, almost reverent in the way he said the name, rolling it across his tongue. He padded a pace closer, scenting him, then breathed, “Is it really you?”

In lieu of an answer, Grantaire leaned in and nuzzled him gently, his head still fitting perfectly underneath Enjolras’s chin. “It’s really me,” he said softly. Then, realizing himself, he pulled away, coughing slightly, and turned to face Jehan and Courfeyrac, who were looking utterly bemused at what was going on. “Um, Courf, Jehan, this is Enjolras. He’s my oldest and best friend.”

Enjolras was looking at Grantaire with growing confusion, as Jehan said genially, “It’s very nice to meet you.”

“You as well,” Enjolras said automatically, but something in his eyes seemed to shutter. “Have you been here this whole time?”

Grantaire glanced over at him, his smile faltering. “Um, yeah,” he said awkwardly, watching the way Enjolras seemed to stiffen at that, and he quickly added, “but I can explain…”

Courfeyrac held up his paws for silence. “Wait a minute. Back up. You two know each other - how? And why did he try and eat Jehan? And why are you ok with the fact that he tried to eat Jehan? And why did he not know where you were if he was your best friend? And…and…what did I miss?!”

Jehan rubbed Courfeyrac’s back soothingly. “It’s ok, Jehan. I’m sure Taire will explain everything.” His eyes flickered over to Grantaire, who was looking increasingly uncomfortable, and added, “Starting with why he never told us that his name was Grantaire.”

“I…it’s complicated,” Grantaire started, his ears lying flat against his head, but Enjolras let out a low growl.

“What’s complicated about it?” he asked. “You’re the prince - sorry,  _king_  - of the pridelands. You disappeared. I thought you were dead. Instead, apparently you holed up here.”

Grantaire shot him a look, pleading with him to understand, somehow, but Courfeyrac was still stuck on the details. “Wait a second - you’re a  _king_?”

Jehan seemed at a loss for words, and made an attempt at a clumsy bow. “Your majesty,” he said formally.

Rolling his eyes, Grantaire huffed, “I’m  _not_  the king. Maybe…maybe I was supposed to be. But that was a very long time ago, and a lot’s happened since then.”

“Yeah, a lot has happened,” Enjolras muttered, and Grantaire looked at him closely, sighing again. Enjolras tore his eyes away and turned to look at Courfeyrac and Jehan. “Do you guys mind giving us a few minutes? We have a lot that we need to discuss.”

Courfeyrac and Jehan exchanged uneasy glances, and both turned to look at Grantaire, who look confused and concerned, but who nodded slowly. “Yeah. Give us a little time, would you? We do have a lot to talk about.”

Now Courfeyrac looked dejected, though Jehan nodded understandingly. “It starts,” Courfeyrac huffed, climbing on to Jehan’s back and giving Grantaire his best pouting eyes. “You think you know a guy…”

Grantaire rolled his eyes good-naturedly, smiling slightly as he turned back to Enjolras. “That’s Courf,” he chuckled. “He’s a little on the crazy side, but you learn to love him.” His smile faded at the look on Enjolras’s face. “Enjolras? What’s wrong?”

“What’s wrong?” Enjolras repeated, his voice strained. “You really want to know what’s wrong? Grantaire, I thought you were  _dead_. Philippe told everyone that you were dead, and that that’s why he was taking the throne. I mourned for you, for my best friend, for—” He bit his words off, dropping his eyes as his shoulders sagged, and after a long moment, he continued in a low voice, “You have no idea what it’s been like since you’ve been gone, how much we’ve needed you.”

Shaking his head slightly, Grantaire looked away. “No one needs me,” he said tonelessly. “No one’s ever needed me.”

Enjolras’s eyes flashed to his. “Oh really?” he snapped, standing up, and for the first time, Grantaire could see Enjolras clearly, really see him, and his mouth dropped open slightly. Enjolras was practically skin and bones, his clearly once-luscious fur dry and brittle, and Grantaire winced at the way his ribs and hipbones jutted from under his fur.

“Enjolras,” he whispered, pained, keenly aware of his own substantial muscles in comparison, of his full coat and mane. It took all of his effort to not rush over to him, to nuzzle him, to try and comfort him the way his instincts were telling him to. “Enjolras, what happened to you?”

“Same thing that’s happened to everyone,” Enjolras told him flatly, his eyes sharp. “Since Philippe took over, the pridelands have started dying out. Patron Minette moved in and Philippe’s done nothing to stop them. The bourgeois and the nobility have their run of the place while the rest of us starve. And anyone who tries to put up any kind of protest is silenced.”

Grantaire did not need to ask how they were silenced, knowing the answer as clearly as he had known anything, as clearly as he could count each and every of Enjolras’s ribs, and he winced again. “Is no one willing to fight back?”

Enjolras growled low in his throat. “Willing? The people are  _willing_ , Grantaire, if they had anyone who could lead them, a flag to rally around. But they’re scared, scared of dying, and there needs to be a greater force before they are  _able_  to do anything about it. Why do you think I’m here? I came to find help.” He paused, his eyes dark, and spat, “I found you.”

The fur on Grantaire’s back had risen during Enjolras’s little speech and he growled as well. “Well sorry that I’m not what you were looking for. Sorry that I wasn’t there. Sorry that if I have  _been_  there, I would have been killed and been able to do nothing more than what I’ve done anyway. I don’t know what you want from me, but you’re not going to find it. Not here.”

“You could come back.” Enjolras’s words were stark, without heat, though there was an undercurrent of longing. “You would be the perfect figure to rally around, the perfect figure to lead the charge. You’re the rightful king, whatever that counts for, and the people would fight for you. Would fight _with_  you.”

Grantaire couldn’t help it; he laughed, a little bitterly. “Why in the world would anyone fight for me? With as long as I’ve been gone, I’m sure no one even cares. No one would care if I came back. Not even you can really believe that that’s true.”

Enjolras shook his head wearily. “You’re their  _king_ ,” he said quietly. “I can’t pretend to understand it fully with my views on the monarchy, and I know that, but they will fight for you nonetheless. If you were to call them, they would come. And you’re their only hope. If you don’t come back, if you don’t help, if you don’t do something, they will die. Your people will die, will starve to death at the paws of those who have never known hunger, have never known loss, have never experienced hardship.” He paused, letting that sink in, then added, “And if you’re willing to let that happen, you’re not who I remember in the slightest.”

Something flicked on Grantaire’s face and after a long moment, he dropped his head, laughing slightly. “Good lord, but I have missed you,” he said honestly, his voice quiet. “I have missed you as the voice of reason in my life, as my conscience. God, Enjolras, I have missed you so much.”

“You have no idea how much I’ve missed you,” Enjolras muttered, ducking his head as well. “Every day without you…it’s been the worst thing I’ve ever had to go through. And I thought it would get easier with time, but it didn’t. It hasn’t. And now, having you here…” His eyes met Grantaire’s full of longing and want and need. “It’s almost more than I can bear.”

That was all it took for Grantaire to cross to him, to press against him, to fill himself with his scent and his presence, to feel his heart beating against him, the slow, steady rhythm of his world settling back into place. “I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you. I would give anything to be able to change that, but I can’t.”

Enjolras pressed his cheek against Grantaire’s, his eyes closed. “You’re here now,” he whispered, his voice hoarse. “You’re here now.”

They stayed that way for a long moment, lost in each other’s presence, and then Grantaire cleared his throat. “I’m sure you have more you want to talk about,” he said, a little wryly. “But for right now, let’s get you something to eat, and then I’ll show you around, alright?”

Hesitating for just a moment, Enjolras nodded, looking almost a little shy as he said, “I’d like that.”

As they walked away, Courfeyrac sighed and leaned against Jehan’s legs from their position in the brush where they had been shamelessly eavesdropping on them. “Well, that’s it,” he moaned. “We’ve lost him now.”

“Hush,” Jehan said, smiling almost sweetly as Enjolras and Grantaire disappeared. “Can’t you see? They’re in  _love_.”

Courfeyrac snorted. “Gross.”

Jehan snorted. “Just because you have the emotional range of a thimble…” He trailed off, turning troubled. “What do you think of the situation back at Grantaire’s home?”

Biting his lip, Courfeyrac shrugged, almost helplessly. “It isn’t our problem, is it,” he said, a little hesitant. “Our home is here.”

Jehan just looked at him for a long moment. “Right,” he said finally, his voice flat. “Our home is here.”

* * *

 

Once Grantaire had caught something for Enjolras to eat and shown him around, the moon had risen and Enjolras was yawning. “Come on, sleepyhead,” Grantaire murmured, nudging him gently. “You should get some rest.”

Enjolras looked at him with tired eyes, eyes that had seen far too much, eyes that were world-weary, and Grantaire felt a lump in his throat. “Ok,” Enjolras mumbled, allowing Grantaire to steer him to a deserted clearing. He settled against the grass, lying on his back, Grantaire’s front paws bracketing his chest. “I really did miss you,” he murmured, licking Grantaire gently. “When I thought I’d never see you again…”

“I know,” Grantaire said quickly, bending his head to touch his muzzle to Enjolras’s. “Believe me, I know.”

A small smile lifted Enjolras’s face, but it was fleeting, and when he looked at Grantaire next, it was with a carefully guarded expression. “I know you don’t want to talk about this,” he whispered, “so I just have one thing left to say. You are more than this. You are more than this so-called life that you have built for yourself. And I just wish that you believed in that as much as I do.”

Grantaire bowed his head, his eyes dark. “The only thing I have ever believed in is you.”

“Then believe in me now.” There was an edge to Enjolras’s words, an edge that seemed to teeter on the precipice of despair, and that hurt Grantaire more than anything else. Enjolras took a long, shuddering breath before whispering, “I love you. I’ve always loved you. And I want you to come back with me.”

Though Grantaire opened his mouth to respond, Enjolras reached up and licked him gently. “Don’t. Don’t say anything. Not right now. I just…” He lay back, his eyes soft. “I wanted you to know.”

Grantaire nodded, settling down next to him, a paw still flung across Enjolras’s chest. He lay his head on Enjolras’s shoulder, watching the all-too familiar and all-too foreign sight of Enjolras drifting off into sleep. When he was sure that Enjolras truly was asleep, he sighed deeply, and whispered, as truthfully as anything he had ever said, “I love you, too.”

* * *

 

When they woke the next morning, still curled around each other, limbs tangled together, it took a long moment for Grantaire to remember everything that had happened. Part of him felt happier than it had in years, having Enjolras at his side, being with him again, and that part wanted to do nothing to change that.

But the other part of him saw the shadows under Enjolras’s eyes, saw the bruises under Enjolras’s skin, saw that bones that stretched his skin almost to the point of breaking, and the blood in Grantaire’s veins seemed to boil at the thought of  _anyone_  doing that to Enjolras, and he wanted to fight, wanted to use his claws and his fangs to tear apart every single lion that had let this happen (himself included).

It was a war that was occurring in his own mind, his brain and his heart battling for supremacy, but as he breathed in Enjolras’s sweet scent, as he watched the rise and fall of Enjolras’s flank with such careful tenderness, he knew his brain had always fought a losing battle. And so when Enjolras blinked into wakefulness, a small smile spreading across his face, Grantaire nuzzled him gently. “I’ve been thinking,” he started, his voice quiet.

Sitting up, instantly awake, Enjolras looked at him carefully as if he might be able to figure out what Grantaire was about to say. “About what?” he asked cautiously, his entire body tense.

Grantaire took a deep breath. “I’m not a king.” Grantaire’s voice was soft but not flat like it had been the last time he had spoken those words; instead, it was firm and decided - in short, belying the words that had come out of his mouth, it was the voice of a king.

Enjolras shook his head despairingly. “But you  _are_  the king,” he protested, about to continue, to launch into his whole spiel, but Grantaire licked him on the cheek to shut him up.

“I’m  _not_  a king,” he said again. “Whatever desire I may have had to rule when I was a cub has long been stamped out of me by the world. But I think that you don’t want a king. Not really. You need someone to rightfully claim the kingship and then give power back to the people. The way that my father tried to. You need someone for the people to gather around, and then once the revolution is over, to not so much disappear as to become one of them. And I…” He looked down, his ears pressed flat against his head. “I may not be worth much. But I can do. I  _will_  do that.”

Pulling back slightly, Enjolras looked at him with wide eyes. “You mean it?” he asked, his voice barely a whisper. “You really, really mean it?”

Grantaire rumbled a laugh. “Of course. The pridelands are my home, as much a part of me as anything. And besides—” at this he dropped his eyes, ears swiveling in embarrassment “—it’s also the home of someone that I love very much.”

Enjolras looked at him for a very long moment before leaning in to nuzzle him, his cheek pressed against Grantaire’s as he buried his nose in Grantaire’s mane. “Does that mean that you’re going to come back with me?”

“Yeah.” Grantaire licked his cheek gently. “Yeah. It’s time that I went back.”

He stood, stretching and Enjolras’s eyes followed his movements approvingly as he stood as well. “Oh, and Grantaire?” Grantaire looked back toward him questioningly and Enjolras went to him, nuzzling him again. “You’re worth far more than you think,” he whispered. “You’re worth everything to me.”

Grantaire ducked his head slightly, embarrassed, but with a small smile that flit across his face before landing there permanently. “Come on,” he said gruffly, nudging Enjolras in unspoken gratitude. “Let’s go home.”


	5. The Circle of Life

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I regret everything and nothing simultaneously.
> 
> **Slight warnings for violence and blood in this chapter.** Nothing too graphic.
> 
> Thanks to everyone who indulged in this prime example of what craziness comes from the recesses of my mind!!

Grantaire had not expected Jehan and Courfeyrac to accompany him when he told them that he was leaving, was going back with Enjolras, but Jehan just looked at him blankly. “We’re your friends,” he reminded Grantaire with a snort. “That’s what we do.”

“And it’s not really home without you,” Courfeyrac added, though he looked mortified at himself for saying it. “Geesh, I sound like Jehan.”

Jehan nuzzled him. “I take that as a compliment, you realize. Besides,” he added, raising his voice slightly to give Enjolras an appraising gaze, “you know me. I’ll go anywhere where there’s true love.”

It was hard to say if Grantaire or Enjolras was more embarrassed by that.

Still, it was a long and hard trek back to the pridelands. Grantaire did not dare go at the breakneck pace he had taken when first fleeing, not with Enjolras still weakened by starvation and Jehan and Courfeyrac unused to hunger and thirst. But he nonetheless felt the need, the itch, to be back, to be back home, setting everything that had gone awry in his absence right.

They managed to make it to the edge of the pridelands without much issue, but Grantaire hung back, surprised and sickened by what he saw. Much of the savannah was dying or dead. He could see no prey in the distance, and thought it was no wonder that Enjolras was starving. Even the oasis seemed mostly dried up, and he bared his fangs, suddenly  _furious_  that this had happened to his kingdom - to his  _home_.

“It’s awful, isn’t it,” Enjolras said quietly, standing beside him. He nuzzled Grantaire reassuringly, and told him, “You can fix this. You  _will_  fix this.”

Grantaire nodded, shakily. “Will you—”

Enjolras nodded as well, stepping away. “I’ll go round up those I know who are willing to fight, tell them to bring others. We’ll gather here. And then…”

Looking out toward the cluster of rocky outcroppings in the center of the pridelands, Grantaire bared his fangs. “And then we will fight.”

* * *

 

When Enjolras had said he would round up those who were willing to fight, Grantaire did not know what he had expected, but it was certainly not this, not the massive crowd of lions and lionesses gathered before him, all looking at him warily, most eyes lingering on Enjolras, clearly more trusted than him.

Enjolras growled to clear his throat and stood, surveying them all. “Citizens,” he called, tail swishing, “citizens, I bring to you your rightful king. Not only is he the trueborn son of King Stanislas, who we were told was dead, but he has heard of our plight and is willing to fight with us, to die with us, to reclaim this land not for himself, but for all of us to live as equals.”

He stepped back, gesturing for Grantaire to step up, which he did, albeit nervously, knowing that this was it, that the words he uttered here would either rouse these lions to fight with him or doom their rebellion to failure. “You may not know who I am,” Grantaire said softly, flicking his ears in the way he did when he was embarrassed or anxious. “You may not remember me from when I was a cub; you may not even remember my father. And I cannot make any promises. I cannot make any guarantees.”

He paused to take a breath, automatically glancing over at Enjolras, who was smiling at him, pride written across his face, and nothing else could have steadied Grantaire in that moment more than that, more than Enjolras’s approval. “I cannot make any promises,” he repeated, turning back to the assembled lions and lionesses. “But if you fight for me, if you fight  _with_  me, we have a chance. A chance to turn back what has been done, a chance to end the oppression you have all suffered. And if we win—”

“ _When_  we win,” Enjolras cut in smoothly, his eyes flashing and his fangs bared.

Grantaire couldn’t help but smile slightly at that, though he also rolled his eyes slightly. “When we win,” he allowed, “I promise that I will cede power to you, to the lions and lionesses of the pridelands, to those who fight beside me. Power to choose your own leader, or no leader at all if that is what you wish.”

The assembled lions shifted, murmurs breaking out across the group. “Why should we trust you?” one lioness asked finally, raising her voice above the crowd. “Why should we believe anything you say?”

Truthfully, Grantaire had wondered the same thing about their plan, had wondered why lions who didn’t know him from Philippe would believe in him enough to rally to him, to fight at his side. “You just have to do so,” he said honestly, shrugging as he glanced at Enjolras again. “You don’t know that I won’t somehow betray you. The only comfort I can offer is that I could die just as easily as any of you in this fight, and then I suppose you wouldn’t have to worry about it.”

The mood was so tense that Grantaire’s poor attempt at a joke had nervous titters of laughter spreading like wildfire until nearly everyone was laughing. Enjolras let them laugh for a few moments, then shook his head, his mane catching the dim light like the sun. “If Grantaire were to betray us,” he said calmly, his voice cutting across any residual conversation, “then we will kill him.”

Courfeyrac let out a choking noise, echoed by Combeferre’s disgruntled squawk, but Grantaire just nodded, his eyes meeting Enjolras’s, reading what was written there for him alone. “Exactly,” he growled, eyes lighting up fiercely. “My so-called power derives from the will of all of you, and if you revoke that will, well…”

This silenced most of the dissenting voices, and Enjolras moved to stand next to Grantaire, their fur brushing just slightly, enough that Grantaire could feel the heat radiating from Enjolras. “It is time for us to all decide,” Enjolras said firmly. “Will you stand with us? Will you fight with us? Is your freedom worth more to you than this miserable existence?”

There was a long moment of silence and Grantaire held his breath, pressing against Enjolras, whose heartbeat was steady and calming. Then, almost as one, the assembled lions and lionesses stood, some stretching, some extending their claws, but the same fierce look in their eyes. Grantaire felt something in his heart that he had never felt before, and he wondered for a brief moment if this is what it felt like to believe. He opened his mouth and let out a fearsome roar, feeling it rumble from deep within his chest. “We will take back what is ours!” he roared.

Enjolras was looking at him with so much happiness and pride in his eyes that Grantaire thought it was worth it for that alone, and then he roared as well. “To battle!”

That was all it took. The lions and lionesses took off at a run toward the center of the pridelands, toward where their oppressors were, and Grantaire and Enjolras ran with them, side by side, matching pace with each other as they ran towards the battle of their lives.

* * *

 

The battle was fierce and long. Despite having surprise on their side, the bourgeois had full bellies and easy lives on theirs, far stronger and with more endurance than the half-starved common lions, and initially, it did not look good, lions and lionesses alike torn down by claws that were simply stronger than they.

But they were outnumbered.

Grantaire did not know where all the lions and lionesses had come from; he would’ve sworn they were not at the assembly where he spoke. Still, they just seemed to keep coming, starving, weak, and beaten-down though they were, and though it may have taken three or four lions at a time to take down one of the stronger ones, they managed to do so, working together with fangs and claws and pure desperation.

Grantaire fought like a whirlwind, jaw snapping and claws flashing through the air faster than lightning. His easy life had at least given him ample time to build up his strength for this moment, even if he had not known it at the time. He refused to go too far from Enjolras, who was holding his own rather impressively, at least until Enjolras whirled around, having just felled a lion twice his size, and saw Grantaire watching him. “Go!” Enjolras yowled, his eyes full of battle light. “I can take care of myself, Grantaire. Just go!”

There was a brief moment of hesitation before Grantaire touched his muzzle to Enjolras’s for just a second before sprinting away, looking for the one who could end this entire fight. Just as he had struck down a snarling lioness, he saw who he was looking for: his uncle, lingering in the back, something close to panic in his expression. “Philippe!” Grantaire roared, leaping through the crowd.

He saw Courfeyrac and Jehan to his right, working together to help aid in the fight, Combeferre dive-bombing in peck ferociously at any who he could reach, and his heart went out to his friends, for this battle that was not theirs but yet which they fought anyway. They were far more his family than the figure towards which he was battling.

Finally he cleared the densest of the fighting, slowing from a sprint to a prowl as he approached Philippe, who was looking at him with confusion and fury mingled in his features. “You!” Philippe snarled, shaking his mane as he tensed. “Did I not tell you to run away and never return?”

“You did,” Grantaire acknowledged, a savage snarl ripping from his throat. “But I have returned, returned to fight for my kingdom, for my people, the way I should have back then. This—” he glanced around, at the bloodshed, brother fighting brother, sister fighting sister, and at the destruction wrought to the pridelands themselves, overhunting and poor conditions stripping the land bare “—this is all my fault. And I take full responsibility for what has happened in my absence. But I am here now. And you will answer to me.”

Philippe snarled and sneered. “Your friends fight for you, but what will change if I was defeated? Your precious citizens will overthrow you just as surely as they seek to depose me, and you are a fool to think otherwise.”

Grantaire shook his head. “At one point I would have thought the way that you do, but now…” He trailed off, turning back slightly to look at the scene before them, at the lions and lionesses fighting and dying for their freedom, his gaze narrowing in on Enjolras the way it automatically did, watching him take down a lion with a single blow. “Now, I think that I shall just have to have faith in them.”

“Faith,” Philippe snorted, backing away from the battle, his eyes darting left and right. “You have grown even weaker than I would have thought.”

Facing him squarely, Grantaire growled low in his throat. “I am stronger than you will ever know.”

Then he leapt toward him, claws extended, a snarl tearing its way from his throat as his claws raked at Philippe’s sides. Philippe hissed in pain and anger, turning his own claws on Grantaire.

It was not a fair fight from the get-go; Grantaire was younger, stronger, and faster, and any lions that might have come to Philippe’s aid were busy fighting their own battles. But it was worse for Philippe than just that because Grantaire fought for a cause the way that he never had before. His eyes and his heart were full of light and love, and that was enough to drive Philippe back against the rocks until Philippe cowered under Grantaire’s paws, blood trickling from his various wounds. “Would you kill your own uncle?” Philippe whispered, his eyes wide and fearful.

Grantaire regarded him coldly. “No, Philippe,” he growled, shaking his mane. “I’m not like you.” He stepped back, raising his voice to a roar, calling to attention those around him. “Your citizens will decide your fate, Philippe.”

Those closest turned, their claws extended, snarls and growls filling the air as Philippe pressed against the rocks, terror written starkly across his features.

As the first lions fell upon Philippe, Grantaire turned away. He would not watch his destruction; he had done what he had needed to, but would not revel in death and destruction. Instead, he waded back into the fray, looking, as always, for Enjolras. It took longer than he had anticipated to find him, expecting to be able to pick out his golden pelt easily, but he could not find Enjolras anywhere.

Then he heard a familiar voice cry out in pain, and he thought his entire world had fallen away. There,  _there_ , too far for Grantaire to reach, Enjolras lay on the ground, claw marks across his left shoulder bleeding freely as he stared up as his assailant, panting heavily. “Enjolras!” Grantaire roared, running faster than he had ever run, his paws barely seeming to touch the ground as he sprinted. “Enjolras!”

He was not going to get there in time, and the lion circling Enjolras grinned as if he knew that. He raised his paw to deliver the killing blow to Enjolras, and Grantaire thought his heart would stop then and there.

But then, from nowhere, Jehan bowled straight into the lion’s stomach, winding him. Courfeyrac jumped off of Jehan’s back and pummeled as many parts of the lion as he could as Combeferre swooped down, beating him around the head with his wings. The lion snarled, swiping at them, managing to knock Combeferre off-balance, and he was just reaching for Courfeyrac when Grantaire got there.

The snarl that tore from Grantaire’s throat was the most ferocious yet, and he wasted little time in killing the lion, wanting to rip him to shreds for touching his friends, from laying a single claw on Enjolras. When he was done, he stood over the dead body for a brief moment, his chest heaving, and then he turned to Enjolras, eyes wild.

Enjolras lay still against the ground, and there was blood, so much blood. Grantaire couldn’t seem to breathe properly, couldn’t make his lungs work, and he rushed to his side, licking his cheek, whispering, “Enjolras - oh god, Enjolras!”

A low rumble sounded from deep within Enjolras’s throat, and he just managed to crack one eyelid open. “Grantaire,” he murmured, and Grantaire almost cried with the relief of hearing his voice, nuzzling him as gently as he could.

“You’re alive,” Grantaire breathed, closing his eyes and breathing in Enjolras’s scent. “You’re alive.”

Enjolras closed his eyes again, letting Grantaire nuzzle and lick him and fuss over him for a few moments, but then he muttered, “I’ll be fine. You should…you should go take care of things. You are…king.”

Grantaire glanced around at the battles that were dying down. Some were fleeing, but Grantaire would let them go. They were not worth pursuing. Others had surrendered, and they would be dealt with in time by the citizens of the land. For now, there was him, and there was Enjolras, and nothing required his attention more than that. “I’m not going anywhere,” he told Enjolras, curling up next to him, nosing his mane, ignore the blood that crusted it. “There is no better place for me than right here.”

And so together they lay, curled up in each other in the midst of destruction, in the midst of ruin, as the seeds of rebirth were laid throughout the land.

* * *

 

“Sir?” a small voice called questioningly into the darkness of the cave. “Um, sir?”

Enjolras opened one eye and groaned, nudging Grantaire into wakefulness. “Whaa?” Grantaire mumbled sleepily, pressing his muzzle deeper into Enjolras’s mane.

Rumbling a laugh deep in his chest, Enjolras licked Grantaire’s ear. “I think you’re being summoned.”

Grantaire groaned and rolled over. “Which of us do you want?” he called to whatever cub was on messenger duty that day. “Me or him?”

“Or both,” Enjolras added, unhelpfully, and Grantaire glared at him.

The voice was even more timid. “Um, I was sent to summon the…the king.”

Enjolras grinned triumphantly. “See, told you so. They want the king.”

Grantaire groaned again. “Who sent you?” he asked, nipping lightly at Enjolras, who just laughed and batted him away playfully with his paws.

“The High Council.”

Now Grantaire and Enjolras exchanged glances. “Oddly enough, I’m here with one of the High Council members, and he seems to know nothing about any summoning. Meaning that it’s not the full Council who wants to see me, just one or two members. Meaning you can run along and tell them that I am exercising my rights as a citizen to nap and not do anything, and if they need to see me so desperately, they can slog over here and ask for me themselves.”

The cub left without saying anything more, and Enjolras shook his head before setting about grooming Grantaire. “You probably scared the poor kid to death,” he scolded.

Grantaire just shrugged. “Being king may come with no actual power now, so I gotta take my perks where I can find them.”

“Is that so?” Enjolras asked, voice dangerously soft, and the next thing Grantaire knew, Enjolras had flipped him on his back, his teeth grazing Grantaire’s throat. “I thought the agreement was that as king, you would have no special privileges of any variety. Do we need to have a discussion about this again?”

Grantaire’s eyes were glowing, and the smile on his face was soft as he reached up to touch his muzzle to Enjolras’s. “If you want to,” he said off-handedly. “I know how it gets you hot and bothered, and you  _know_  how I like you hot and bothered.”

Enjolras couldn’t help but laugh at that, burying his face in Grantaire’s mane and all but collapsing on top of him as they both dissolved into laughter.

Outside, spring was in full bloom in the pridelands, where there had been peace for over a year now. The circle of life had restored itself and all was well, from the birds that flitted through the sky to two lions who lay curled up with each other the same way they had as cubs, saturated through and through with love.


End file.
